Phoenix musician and writer Jason Woodbury's got a road trip story for the dogs.
JASON WOODBURY: It had already been a long day by the time the call came, my buddy Tim on the line with an odd request. Earlier that day, he’d been on a surveying trip for work in the remote desert town of Page, located near the Glen Canyon Dam and Lake Powell, way up in the stark northern recess of the Grand Canyon State.
While stopping for gas and road sodas en route back to the Valley, he and his co-workers had noticed a strangely affectionate dog lingering by the pump. The dog made a connection, she seemed to telepathically speak to Tim. Though he was already back at his apartment in Tempe, he couldn’t stop thinking about that dog. It was late in the afternoon, but he had a wild proposition: He wanted to drive the four-plus hours back to Page to get that dog. And he needed road trip partners, as that meant a four-plus hour drive home, as well.
Until only recently, Tim and I had been neighbors on Forest Avenue in Tempe. Though I’d departed my one bedroom next to Tim’s to move in with my then girlfriend, I was still only a few blocks away. I was working my first “real” adult job, editing the music section and online blog of the local alt-weekly, and I was feeling worn by the constant grind of my deadlines — coupled with frequent late-night work as the paper’s resident concert critic, with wordcounts to pad out looming each following morning.
But I’m a sucker for magical thinking, and the idea of not spending the evening hunched over my laptop catching up on work was striking. On the surface, Tim’s request sounded a little delusional; after all, there seemed little chance that the dog would still by there by the time we got there, and absolutely no chance we’d be able to find her in the darkness if she was lingering nearby. But then again what if it really was meant to be? I was used to late nights and early mornings anyhow, so I agreed to join him. Like they say on “The X-Files”: I wanted to believe.
Our friend Aaron was game, too. As per usual, he had details of a torrid small-town romance to get off his chest. We stopped by our buddy Zane’s on our way out of town to borrow his SUV, though he couldn’t join us, he wanted to support the cause. It was probably 7 or 8 before we got going properly on the road, which felt entirely too late.
We heard Gordon Lightfoot on the radio as we rolled past the turn off to Carefree Highway, and we chatted all the way up, noting with wonder how the time on the dash clock rolled an hour backward and then forward again as we entered and existed the Navajo Nation, the only part of Arizona that observes daylight savings time.
We tuned the radio to Coast to Coast AM. The crackle of George Norry droning on about Coral Castle — Florida’s own Stonehenge — accompanying us as we drove. About 20 minutes away from our destination, Tim called the gas station on his cell. No one answered. Not promising.
As we pulled into Page, black sky overhead populated by stars you can’t see in the city due to light pollution, I tried not to get my hopes up. But I felt something grab me internally, and decided, no, I would hope that the dog would be there. That by making this journey, we weren’t so much willing the dog to be there, but writing her into the story’s conclusion.
As Tim pulled into the gas station, I couldn’t see much beyond the dim light glowing from the closed convenience store windows. We stepped out, each taken aback by how cold it was. We peered into the darkness. And then, emerging from the shadows, the sigh of a golden brown dog, emerging from behind the gas station, trotting up to us as if she’s been waiting. Tim glowed and popped the back of the SUV. Without hesitation, she hopped in.
The drive home would bring its own delusions — along with a terrible mess for Tim to clean up before returning the car — but the whole way back, things glowed with a strange tinge of fate. An unexpected call answered — exactly as planned.
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At KJZZ's The Show, we love bringing you conversations about life in the Valley and beyond. Now we want to know what's happening in your head. -
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